


and it's better (you and i)

by capebretons



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Diners, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 08:36:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11505684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capebretons/pseuds/capebretons
Summary: “Do I have to wear rollerskates?”“Not if you don’t want to.”“I don’t want to.”“What if I want you to?”(Or: a story about cherry-red rollerskates, a shitty '60s diner, and falling in love with your best friend.)





	and it's better (you and i)

“You have batter on your face,” Mikey says, rubbing his thumb right under Nate’s eye. “It’s blue.”

“Blueberry pancakes,” Nate says easily, as Mikey sticks his thumb in his mouth. “Taste good?”

Mikey shrugs. “Fine, I guess. I just don’t think blueberry pancakes are supposed to actually be blue.”

“I didn’t think waiters were supposed to flirt with every customer,” Nate shoots back easily, nodding at the table of hockey players in the booth right by the door. “But.”

Mikey rolls his eyes, reaching onto the counter to pick up the plate of eggs and bacon Nate slid over a few seconds ago. He snaps his gum once, which is a habit he’s had since forever. When he opens his mouth, Nate can smell the Juicy Fruit on his breath. “You cannot give a man rollerskates and expect him to—”

“Yes, you definitely can,” Nate says. “Please keep it in your uniform-sanctioned polyester pants.”

“You’re just jealous,” Mikey sighs, almost dreamily, and rollerskates over to Rance, who always sits in the same spot, every Tuesday night, and always tips Mikey, like, forty dollars. Nate should  _ not _ have applied for the line-cook position.

Nate gets to work on the hashbrowns, bopping along to the Beach Boys and Mikey, chatting easily with Rance as he fills up his coffee cup. The hiss of the grill drowns out pretty much all else, and Nate kind of likes that. It gives him space to think.

There’s something mechanical about cooking, even when it’s something easy, like eggs and bacon, like waffles. It’s just math, and being patient, and those are two things Nate’s always been good at. Cooking is easy. This  _ job _ is easy, a space filler between high school and college for this weird-ass summer, in this weird-ass town.  _ God, _ Nate is so ready to be out of Mississauga.

“Chin up there, Nater,” Dylan says as he rolls by the window to the kitchen, balancing a tray on each hand. “Can’t be too bad.”

“You look like shit, Stromer,” Nate says, and doesn’t even have to look at him to know it.

“Must be your cooking,” Dylan sing-songs, then slips in his skates, and drops to the ground. (This, quite fortunately, is not an anomaly. Stromer has fallen on his ass approximately eleven times since he started working here, and somehow, he’s  _ always _ carrying a tray full of food or a pot full of coffee. It has never not been funny, but their boss is getting pretty tired of Dylan’s shit.)

“Must be genetics,” Nate replies, mostly to himself, because Dylan’s skated (wobbily) off, in search of a mop.

Mikey’s at the counter, wiping down a glob of ketchup, and he laughs.

  
  


See, Nate and Mikey had graduated this May, with eyes bright and shiny, dreaming of college and a summer of drinking and partying and maybe tagging along to someone’s lakehouse. How foolish, how naive they had been. Turns out, you need money to buy a case of beer, and you need money to buy gas, and you need money for basic self care.

Mikey, rich kid that he is, was bitching to his mom about needing more money for previously mentioned shit, and she snapped that he needed to get a fucking job, Michael, and so Mikey became a waiter. And Nate — Nate’s never let Mikey do anything alone.

“It’s such bullshit,” Mikey’d said, the night after his first shift. They were in Nate’s basement, half-asleep on the couch as  _ Dumb & Dumber _ played on mute. “I have to wear fucking rollerskates.”

“No shit,” Nate laughed, too tired to really understand what the hell that meant.

“Yup,” Mikey groaned, and leaned into Nate’s shoulder, his head lost in the junction of Nate’s shoulder and neck. “And a red polyester shirt, and an apron. You will shit yourself laughing. Luke did.”

“Can’t wait,” Nate said, too soft, and let his head flop gently on top of Mikey’s.

“Are you going to work?” Mikey asked a minute later, his voice thinner, more tired.

“Nah,” Nate had sighed, tipping his head back. “I’ll let you spoil me all summer. I deserve to be pampered.”

“Please never say the word  _ pampered _ again,” Mikey said, not missing a beat. “And I will be doing no such thing. I’m a working man, Nathaniel, I have to provide for myself—”

“Are they still hiring?” Nate asked, and Mikey went still, like a fuckin’ weirdo.

“Yeah,” Mikey’d nodded, a little jerkily. “Line cooks.”

“Do I have to wear rollerskates?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t want to.”

“What if  _ I  _ want you to?”

“I will not.”

And Mikey had spent the rest of the night prepping Nate for the interview, for every single employee, including Mitchell Stephens and Taylor Raddysh but excluding Dylan, because Nate’s never liked Dylan, and Mikey’s logic is solid.

(And there’s not really ever a reason for Nate not liking Dylan. Dylan’s great. Dylan always brings alcohol, and Dylan is good at making friends, and Dylan is bad at video games. And like, he’s pretty much Mikey’s brother. Those two — they grew up together, in the mean streets of Lorne Park, which aren’t mean at all, just really good for street hockey. They’re just — super close. And Nate gets uncomfortable, sometimes. It’s not a thing.)

So Nate had showed up, interviewed, and was handed an apron and a hair net about four minutes later. Mikey, who had totally not been eavesdropping while pretending to thoroughly clean the booth behind the interview, had looked delighted. 

“I vouched for you, you know,” Mikey beamed. “Really put myself on the line for you.”

“Oh, of course, your esteemed reputation of two days on the job,” Nate nodded, mock-seriously. “Understood. I won’t let you down, cap.”

Mikey rolled his eyes, pleased, and Nate had the distinct pleasure of watching him roll away to take an order. Mikey On Skates is one of the best Mikeys there is.

  
  


And so it’s late June now, and Nate’s been working at Baby’s Diner for three weeks now, and he still cries whenever he chops an onion. Mitchell Stephens, the other line cook on his shift, promises that he’ll get over that soon, but Nate’s not sure crying is a thing you can overcome. If it is, someone should tell Dylan.

“If you bite something, it helps,” Mitchell’s saying, though it’s muffled through the rag between his teeth. “I swear. Taylor thinks I’m crazy—”

“God, stop talking about your boyfriend,” Mikey groans, sitting at the counter while refilling the salt shakers. “We get it. You’re in love. You want to have his babies and make him soup when all his teeth fall out from old age.”

“Your mind goes strange places, you know that?” Taylor says, next to Mikey, as he fills up the pepper shakers. It’s a slow afternoon, right around four, and the only customers in the whole diner are an elderly couple in a booth by the window. They ordered a banana split with two spoons, and Nate’s cold heart melted.

“My mind goes  _ correct _ places,” Mikey rubs at his nose before continuing. “I know you, Mitchell. I’ve known you for a twenty-three days. You want to have his frosted-tipped, small-mouthed babies—”

“Don’t insult my boyfriend’s mouth,” Mitchell sighs, cutting into his onion a little more forcefully.

“Okay, now,  _ you’re _ the one who’s insinuating that having a small mouth is a bad thing,” Nate says, and Mikey’s head shoots up, and Nate’s earned a smile from him. It’s all too easy, when it comes to Mike.

“I’ve come to terms with the smallness of my mouth,” Taylor sighs, almost wistfully. “It does what it needs to do. It smiles, it chews—”

“It swallows,” Nate finishes, not looking up, and Mitchell throws a dish towel at him.

“Clouder, I liked you better without the sidekick,”  Mitchell says, dodging the dish towel Nate throws back his way.

“Hey, woah, no,” Nate looks up, raising his hands as if to say  _ hold up. _ “I’m not the sidekick.”

“So Mike’s the sidekick?” Taylor asks, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Does Mike know that?”

“Fuck you guys,” Mikey says, pouting. “No one’s the side kick. We’re both protagonists.”

“Big word,” Nate compliments, sending Mikey a thumbs-up, when Mitchell frowns, saying, “That’s not how that works.” He nods at Nate to start cutting up the tomatoes. Nate abides.

“Um, yes it is,” Mikey protests.

“So then who’s your sidekick?” Taylor asks, good-natured as ever.

“Dylan,” Nate answers for the both of them. “Or Mike’s mom.”

“Judy,” Mikey agrees, nodding. “Oh, the days.”

No one bothers asking what, exactly,  _ the days _ were, but the sentiment is received.

Mike and Nate have been best friends since the first day of high school, when Mikey sat behind Nate in bio, and asked to borrow a pencil. There isn’t much more to the story than that, but it’ll be easy to tell their kids about.

Their respective kids. Mike and Nate are not getting married, if that’s what you’re insinuating. In no universe is that happening.

It’s not long after that when the dinner rush starts, and Nate’s needed behind the grill again, sauteeing shit and burning his wrist on the wrought-iron pan. Another day, another dollar, another minimally-painful bodily injury.

When he shows the red burn to Mikey as they’re walking to the car as their shift ends, Mikey frowns.

“I’m gonna fuck that grill up,” Mikey says, and pulls up the flashlight on his phone so he can see the burn better in the dark of the night.

“Were you even listening to me?” Nate frowns, jerking his wrist away. “It was the pan, not the grill. Don’t fuck with my grill, McLeod.”

“Jeez, sorry,” Mikey grins, not looking even a little sorry. Gently, he reaches back for Nate’s wrist, and rolls up his long sleeve to see it again. He doesn’t look at Nate as he rubs his thumb over the puckered skin, almost contemplative. And then — he leans down, and presses a kiss to it.

Nate’s heart does something funny, too loud in his chest, and, stupidly, hopes Mikey can’t hear it. Which is stupid. Hearts can’t beat that loud. Can they? Nate didn’t listen all that well in biology — how could he have? Mike sat right behind him. 

“The shit was that,” he says, but there’s not enough heat behind it to make it sound anything but breathless.

Mikey shrugs easily, straightening up. “I don’t know. My mom used to do that when I got hurt.”

Nate takes his wrist back, slower this time. “What, when you were little?”

“Like, this morning,” Mikey says, but he’s wearing his I-am-spouting-complete-and-actual-bullshit grin on, so Nate’s not sure what this is, anymore.

“You’re a little fuckhead, you know that?” Nate grins, because it’s true. Mikey looks like a postcard sometimes — too good, too angelic, with dimples and boyband hair, but underneath all that is, is. This kid. Who does shit like this.

“I know,” Mikey sighs, and shifts his backpack on his shoulders. In his bag somewhere, Nate can hear the wheels of his skates click against each other, and he wants to laugh. “So, you gonna give me a ride home, or do I need to telephone Judy?”

“Telephone,” Nate repeats, rolling his eyes as he unlocks his car. Honestly, this kid. “Just for that, you can walk.”

Mikey sticks out his bottom lip, the most exaggerated pouting Nate’s seen in all his eighteen years. Christ, he cannot actually think Nate would leave him here. The amount of times Nate has had to drag his ass out of bed in the wee hours of the morning to yank this shitfaced baby out of a party in Port Credit is incalculable. (It’s probably more like three, but Nate’s always had a flair for the dramatics.)

He’s about to tell him to  _ get in the fucking car, Mike,  _ but Mike gets in easily, like he knew what Nate would say. They hang out too much, maybe.

  
  


Nate’s got a day off today, but Mikey’s still working. This leaves Nate with an empty day, mostly. He takes his dog on a run, checks social media until his eyes bleed, and watches  _ Scream 3,  _ for no real reason. It’s a good day, if not a little lonely.

Around five, the group texts start to get a little rowdy, everyone asking who’s hosting tonight, who’s buying, who’s gonna bring the speaker or the ping-pong balls or the red Solo cups. Nate’s funds are still limited, thanks to minimum wage and the fact that he bought stuff last time, thanks so much, so he just watches his phone buzz for a good fifteen minutes, then mutes the group texts.

About an hour later, Mikey texts him,  _ see u at Owens? _

So Tip’s hosting tonight. Tight.

_ Prolly,  _ Nate texts back, because he knows Mikey knows that means yes.

And one shower, one shave, and three outfit changes later, Nate pulls up at Tip’s house. It’s big and made of bright red brick, just like Tip himself. Nate makes a mental note to tell Mikey that, tonight.

And yeah, there’s Mike, in the middle of an intense game of Flip, with beer dripping down his chin and onto his Leafs t-shirt. That fucking broccoli song is blaring, and Mike looks like he’s maybe trying to dance along, but Mike is an awful dancer, always has been, and Nate laughs out loud.

Apparently, it’s loud enough for Mikey to hear, and he whips around to grin at him. “What’s up, stranger?” He calls out, and about four people turn their heads. Mike pushes past all of them and flops into Nate’s chest, which is the same thing as Mike painting  _ I’M SLOSHED  _ on his forehead.

“Saw you yesterday,” Nate laughs, clapping Mike on the back before stepping away. 

“So long ago,” Mikey steps back, a little wobbly, and grins at Nate like Nate’s hung the moon. None of this is new for Drunk Michael.

“Says literally no one.”

“Says me,” Mikey has not stopped grinning, and now Nate’s grinning, and this has turned into a giant mess. “Hey, I’m sloshed.”

“Shwasted.”

“Shwaaaaaaang.”

“Shwisted.”

“This is a fun game,” Mikey grins, giggling a little now. “But you know what could make it more fun?”

Nate could kill him. He already knows where this shit is going. “What would make it more fun, Michael?”

“If you were dr—”

“If I was drunk, too?” Nate interjects, because they have had this conversation an unreal amount of times.

Mikey grins. “That’s a fun game, too.”

Nate likes games.

So this game starts with slamming down a couple of shots, then a couple more, and someone makes him something with Peach Svedka, which is as rank as it sounds, and about an hour and a half later, Nate’s in Mikey’s lap. Even drunk, that doesn’t make much sense, because Nate is huge, and Mikey’s huge too but less huge than Nate, so Nate tries to slide off, but Mikey holds him tight.

“No,” Mikey slurs, and his forehead falls against Nate’s shoulder. “Need you close.”

Nate giggles, because alcohol. “You got me.”

“I got you,” Mikey agrees, and Nate can feel him nod once. “Missed you today.”

“Yeah?” Nate grins, and if he settles into Mikey, no one can blame him. Mikey’s comfortable, okay? He’s warm and soft and his hair smells like cinnamon. (No one asked, Nate.)

“Yeah,” Mikey says, and his voice sounds small. Nate leans into him, and Mikey moves a little too, until Mikey’s mouth is pressed against Nate’s shoulder. Nate only knows it’s his mouth because it’s warm there, and a little wet, too. “I was lonely. Dylan Strome is shitty company.”

“You, specifically, saying those words, specifically, is my exact kink,” Nate grins, and laughs a little, because Mikey’s kissing him, kind of.

“Don’t tell him I said that,” Mikey’s grinning now, Nate can feel it.

“Oh, I am most definitely telling him you said that,” Nate cannot stop smiling. He has literally never been this happy before. Or, at least, today.

“Nooo,” Mikey groans, but he’s laughing, he’s laughing, he’s laughing.

And he’s still laughing when Nate turns around and kisses him, but he stops pretty soon after that.

Nate pulls back, and he can feel himself blushing, but he’s also still grinning. “Sorry,” he says, somewhere between embarrassed and delighted. “That just felt like the right thing to do.”

Mikey blinks at him once, twice, and his mouth is open and a little red. That mouth — that mouth had tasted like Juicy Fruit. And Mike’s looking up at Nate with eyes too wide, cheeks too pink, and Nate wants to kiss him again, and he doesn’t really want to think about anything else right now.

And then Mikey’s surging up to kiss him, wrapping a hand around the back of Nate’s neck to bring him closer, close enough that their noses kind of crash into each other, until their teeth click against each other, until Nate’s not sure where he ends and Mikey begins.

But it’s Nate who pulls away, because it’s Nate that needs to throw up.

  
  


If he’s honest, Nate has no idea how he got home from Tip’s house. One second, he’s sprinting into the backyard so he can puke on something other than Owen’s carpet, and the next, he’s butt-ass naked in his bed. And his phone is ringing.

“Hi,” he says into the receiver, not coherent or awake enough to see who’s calling.

“Nate,” is what comes next, and that’s Mikey who sounds relieved.

“Evidently,” Nate says, which doesn’t feel like the right thing to be saying. Honestly, he’s probably still a little drunk. “Why am I home?”

“Gibby drove you,” Mikey sounds a little weird, over the phone. It’s probably the reception. “He got there right when you puked.”

“Tight,” Nate nods. “Gibby take all my clothes off, too?”

“You puked on your pants,” Mikey says. “And your shirt. But the underwear’s all you. You get overheated when you drink.”

“Tight,” Nate nods again, and falls back into his pillows. The motion is enough to make him nauseous all over again, and he has to close his eyes and take a few deep breaths before continuing. “Jesus fuck, I don’t remember a  _ thing.  _ Must’ve been good, though, if I’m this fucked at — fuck, it’s five in the morning? Jesus, Mike, why would you call me at five in the morning?”

There’s a super long pause on Mike’s end, and Nate thinks Mike might have died, because Mikey almost always goes as hard as Nate. Just as Nate’s about to ask if he’s okay, Mikey pipes up, a crack in his voice, “You don’t remember anything?”

“Uh,” Nate pauses, considering. “I remember arriving.”

Mikey pauses. “And that’s it?”

“Pretty much,” Nate says, closing his eyes. “Um. You were laughing? At something? That’s — shit, dude, that’s all I got.”

“That’s all you got,” Mikey repeats, and he sounds like he just got punched in the stomach.

“Yeah, man,” Nate says, careful. “Why? Did I dance on a table or something?”

“No, no,” Mikey says quickly. “No. Nothing like that. You were — good.”

“I was good,” Nate says slowly. “Are you sure?”

Mikey sounds like he’s barely there when he says  _ yes, _ quiet and small.

Nate frowns. Mikey has literally never even remotely — what? “Are you okay, man?” Nate asks, and really tries to listen to Mikey’s voice.

“What?” Mikey asks, and suddenly he’s back in Technicolor. “Yeah. I’m great, dude. I’ll see you at work in, what, five hours?”

“Agh, fuck,” Nate groans. “Shit fuck dammit.”

“I feel that,” Mikey says, and his voice is a little thin.

Nate makes a few more groany noises before sighing, “Need a ride?”

“I’m okay,” Mikey says. “Stromer’s right next door.”

“You hate Dylan.”

“ _ You  _ hate Dylan,” Mikey says, bordering on indignant. “Dylan picked me up last night, and he tucked me in, too. Dylan’s my hero.”

“Thought I was your hero.

“Think again, bud.”

  
  


Nate sleeps for another two hours, then wakes up to take an hour-long shower. He stands under the spray, stares at the tile, and focuses on not dying. He takes a nap before making himself some toast, and eats it in the car on the way to work.

It’s a Sunday morning, so Baby’s is packed. Everyone Nate has ever fucking met is here. Every booth has a family, ever stool at the bar has a curmudgeonly old man, and Mikey is absolutely flying on those rollerskates. Dylan is attempting to fly, but if he were a bird, he’d be flightless. Everyone’s a little flustered, and Nate, honestly, is moving a touch too slow this morning. He’s fucked up two orders and put sugar in the eggs instead of salt, and Mitchell’s about ready to kill him. Nate wouldn’t mind, at this point.

“Jesus Christ, dummy,” he says, even though there’s no real heat behind it, because Mitchell doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. “What the fuck happened to you last night?”

“No idea,” Nate says, carefully drizzling maple syrup on a stack of banana pancakes. “I haven’t been that bad since — like. Ever, maybe.”

“Yikes,” Mitchell says, sympathetic. 

“Seriously,” Nate nods, and then they get about four hundred new orders, and they don’t have time to talk until the brunch rush has died down.

Everyone looks a little shellshocked, and there’s a giant hollandaise stain on Taylor’s shirt, vaguely resembling the shape of Manitoba. Mitchell takes a picture. 

Their shifts don’t end for another hour, but their boss tells them to take it easy for a bit, so the five of them cram into the corner booth with a big plate of scrambled eggs, a bowl of fries, and a pot of lukewarm coffee.

“That was fun,” Mikey says, his head against the table.

“I would give up my first born son if it meant I absolutely never had to do that again,” Taylor mumbles, leaning up against Mitchell. 

“How do you feel about that, Mitchy?” Dylan asks, and Nate would laugh, if it wasn’t Dylan.

Mikey does, though. Traitor.

“I respect his choices,” he says, which is barely an answer, and Nate realizes that it’s him who’s leaning against Taylor.

Dylan and The Couple then get into baby names, and Nate retreats into Mikey. “Tough shift, eh?” He says, to the back of Mikey’s head. He is still facedown, and Nate respects it.

“Not one of my best, no,” he sighs, and sits up. He smiles, a little tired, and Nate can see the bags under his eyes, the hazy, unfocused way he’s looking at Nate. He snaps his gum before answering, and yep, that’s Juicy Fruit. “You?”

“You should know,” he smirks, leaning back against the vinyl of the booth. “You had to return three of my orders.”

“Yeah, you fucking idiot,” Mikey laughs, tired. “And when you tried to convince me that my handwriting is shitty enough for you to think  _ bacon _ was  _ fruit plate _ —”

“It  _ is _ shitty enough,” Nate grins, and gets one out of Mike, too. “Remember those fucking calculus study guides you’d make—”

“To save your ass,” Mikey talks over him, but his point isn’t standing too strong, because he’s laughing too hard to sit up straight, “because you went a whole semester having no fucking clue what a fucking  _ parabola _ was—”

“I knew,” Nate sniffs, indignant. “In my heart, I knew—”

“But on a test, you didn’t. That’s why you needed my study guides.”

Nate blinks, because that was a damn good comeback, Michael. Well done. “You going to law school or something?” He asks, shoving a french fry in his mouth to try and hide his grin.

“Nah,” Mikey smiles, sitting back. “Just plain ol’ business school, so I can come back here and be your boss someday.”

Nate snorts at that, and looks away. Mitchell and Taylor are half-asleep, eyes barely open, but Dylan is looking straight at him, like he’s a fucking serial killer or something. Nate tips his chin up, like  _ sup,  _ and Dylan does nothing. Just keeps looking at him, long and hard, until Mikey coughs real loud, and Dylan picks up his phone.

Strome’s always been an asshole, anyway.

  
  


It’s a quiet night at Baby’s, just a handful of people scattered throughout the diner. Mikey’s doing some twirling and backwards shit to entertain a toddler, and Mitchell’s not even pretending to be working, just scrolling through Twitter on his phone while Nate blends up a milkshake. Nate respects that. If Nate could, he’d take out his phone and lie on the linoleum floor and scroll through Snapchat until his eyes bled, because if he has to crack one more fucking egg today, he will start throwing shit.

Mitchell and Taylor take off a little early, something about date night, and Dylan’s shift ended a few hours back, so it’s Mikey and Nate, walking out to the parking lot at midnight alone.

“You going to make me walk again?” Mikey grins, his tongue poking out between his teeth. It’s a dumb, dopey grin, one that only comes out of hiding when Mikey’s dead on his feet.

“Yeah, bud,” Nate nods, barely sarcastic, unlocking his car.

“Solid joke, Nater,” Mikey says as he slides into the passenger seat. “You should write a book. Something big and leather-bound, to be kept in an ancient old library—”

“You fuckin’ started it, McLeod,” Nate sighs, and pulls out onto the highway. 

“I started it?” Mikey laughs, loud and almost incredulous. “If I’m remembering shit right,  _ you _ ’re the one who—”

And then he stops, too abrupt, and the laughter hangs awkwardly in the air. Jesus, what is going on with this kid today? Mikey hasn’t been this awkward around Nate since — well. Mikey has never been awkward around Nate.

“You doing alright over there, friend?” Nate says after a minute, while Mikey’s sitting over there in the passenger seat looking vaguely queasy. 

“Swell,” Mikey says, and it doesn’t sound swell at all.

Quiet comes when Nate takes their exit off the highway, and the sound of the engine dies as they slow down to the red light. And Nate — Nate doesn’t want to, isn’t sure he’s  _ allowed to,  _ with the way Mikey’s acting tonight — looks over at Mike, whose eyes are shut, whose eyelashes are long, whose hand is balled up on his knee.

“What’s happening, right now?” Nate asks. He tries to sound a little more kind, this time. He hopes he does.

“Nothing,” Mikey says, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “Seriously. I’m just — tired.”

And Nate wants to press on this, but Mikey’s never liked that, so. So. “Okay,” he says, and his voice cracks, and he wishes he didn’t feel like such a fucking coward.

There’s a few more lights until Mike’s house, and most of those lights are silent. Mikey’s chewing gum again, and Nate’s grateful for the little snaps, because that means — God, this sounds so stupid — it means it’s still him. Yeah. That sounds dumb.

He doesn’t want to pull into Mikey’s driveway, but there’s not much of an alternative.

“Get some sleep,” he hears himself say when Mike reaches for the door.

Mikey nods, sliding out of the car. “Yeah, man, I will. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Nate says, and he mostly sounds like he’s not one more silent minute away from a panic attack. “Just. Shut your eyes for seven to eight hours.”

Mikey snorts, and that’s probably the most Nate can ask of tonight’s ride. “You, too.”

  
  


Nate doesn’t sleep well that night. 

But he goes in the next morning, and all is well. Mikey’s shining again, barely flirting with the customers, pretending to moonwalk in his skates, bopping his head along to a Commodores song as he makes a fresh pot of coffee. 

“You look happy,” Nate says, as Mike glides by to pick up the side of hashbrowns from the order window. 

“You don’t,” Mikey grins, but there’s a concerned little scrunch to his eyebrows, which means  _ we’ll talk about this when you’re not deep-frying, okay? _

The breakfast rush dies down, and Taylor and Mitchell go on “break,” which really means they’re gonna make out in Taylor’s car. Dylan, apparently, has mono, or syphilis, or the common cold, so he’s not in today. It’s just Nate and Mike. It’s good, like that.

“So you slept like shit, huh?” Mikey says, as Nate sets down his milkshake. Mikey has an incredibly severe lactose intolerance, but he pops LactAid like it’s nobody’s business, because his favorite thing in the world is a milkshake, usually made by Nate. And Nate goes hard with milkshakes. He puts marshmallow fluff in that shit.

And, yes, they have already made every single joke they possibly can about milkshakes and boys in yards. It’s never not funny.

“I slept like a damn baby, Clouder, why would you say that?” Nate says, sarcastic, and rests his forehead against the cool of the countertop. 

“You look like you’ve just come back from war,” he says, and then there’s a hand in Nate hair, gentle, almost petting him. Nate makes a noise, and it’s not quite voluntary.

“You’re being too nice to me,” Nate says, and his words are muffled by the counter.

“I’m always this nice to you,” Mikey argues, because that’s one of his favorite things in the world to do. “Also, you just made me a milkshake. I think I’m allowed to be nice to you after you make me a milkshake.”

“That’s still to be determined,” Nate says, and turns a little until it’s just his cheek on the counter, and he can see Mikey now. Mikey, whose hand is still in Nate’s hair, whose eyes are blue, who smiles like he’s in on the joke, because he always is.

God, Mike is beautiful.

And that’s a thought he’s never—

Okay, well, that’s something he’s going to have to deal with later.

This is — not for now. No. Okay.

(But he really is beautiful. Just so we’re all clear, here.)

“What?” Mikey’s voice is soft, and he’s still smiling, and his hand his warm.

“Nothing,” Nate says, and his voice is even, which is shocking to everyone. “You just — you look nice today, Mike.”

Mikey grins, just a little bit wider, and ducks his head. “Well,  _ now _ who’s being too nice—”

  
  


Dylan’s back at work the next day, skating atrociously across the linoleum, spilling orange juice left and right. God. That kid should be fired by now, shouldn’t he? Or maybe dead?

“I thought you were dying,” Nate calls out, as Dylan whizzes by with a burger and fries.

“No, man,” Dylan calls back. “Sorry to disappoint. Also, suck my dick.”

“Does he know he can’t skate?” Mitchell asks, slicing up strawberries. “Or is he, like, blissfully unaware—”

“No, I think he knows,” Nate frowns. “Well. He has to. He has to know, right? He can barely make it across the restaurant without—”

“Stop being an asshole,” Mikey says, and Nate just about jumps out of his skin, because when the fuck did Mikey get to the order window? He’s too stealth for his own good, Mikey McLeod.

“Me?” Nate asks, eyebrows arched, and points at his own chest, as if anyone was confused. “How am I being an asshole?”

Mikey sniffs. “He’s trying his best out there, okay?”

“No, he is definitely not,” Nate shoots back, because arguing with Mike is fun.

“He’s — attempting.”

“Let me go get him his participation medal, then—”

“Okay,  _ now _ you’re being a dick—”

“ _ You’re _ the dick, dick—”

Taylor Raddysh chooses that moment to glide right next to Mikey, crashing into him only slightly, somehow dainty, with a faint smile. “Trouble in paradise, eh?”

And something about that, something about the way he says it, makes Nate grit his teeth. God, who the fuck invited this guy? “Why do you only speak in idioms?” Nate asks, because now he’s in a bad mood. He chops into a carrot a little harder than necessary. “That’s never been necessary.”

“Hey,” Mitchell says, warning, which is about as threatening as Mitchell Stephens gets. Probably.

Nate knows he’s turning red, because as much as he loves attention, he kind of hates it, too. And he’s kind of throwing a tantrum right now, which isn’t a great look. And, like, mostly, it just sucks because he knows he’s being an asshole, and he got called on it, and now Mikey’s looking at him, too careful, like Nate’s gonna burst. And, fuck, seriously. This shit always goes back to Dylan fucking Strome, huh?

Nate yanks off his apron, because Drama, and belatedly remembers to set down the knife. “I’m going to take ten.”

He can feel everyone looking at him as he heads out into the back parking lot, wondering who the fuck shit in his Cheerios, and honestly, Nate’s wondering the same thing. 

And now Nate’s just standing in a fucking parking lot, by himself, like he’s a fucking idiot. He probably is. God, he’s just so  _ tired,  _ and things don’t feel like they used to, and he knows he’s being weird, and—

“Hey,” and God, can Nate get four fucking minutes without Michael McLeod?

“What, man?” Nate turns, and there’s Mikey, taking long, sloping strides across the parking lot, in his cherry-red rollerskates. If Nate didn’t feel like he was about to clock someone in the jaw, he might laugh.

“Are you okay?” And Nate would clock  _ him _ if he didn’t look so concerned. Or, no — Nate knows how Concerned Mike looks. This is Apologetic Mike, which is one hundred percent worse.

“Don’t fucking apologize, are you serious?” Nate spits out, before he can think, and oh no.

“Dude,” Mikey says, and it’s not pity in his voice, but it’s hurt, and that’s always been worse.

“Okay, no,” Nate says, and he doesn’t realize he’s walking to meet Mikey halfway until he’s only a foot away. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I don’t know what’s going on with me right now.”

“You’re being weird,” Mikey says, which is a polite way of saying  _ what the fuck is happening right now? _

“I know,” and he looks at the pavement, because it’s easier than looking up at Mikey, who’s moved past hurt and moved on to Concerned Mike, and that’s a little better, and that hurts a little more. For some reason. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t — I should be nicer, to Dylan.”

Mikey shrugs, one-shouldered. “I don’t know. And I don’t know if it’s genetically possible for you to be nicer to Dylan. Maybe you should just get a little more sleep. And eat more vegetables. And see a movie with me tonight.”

Nate looks up at that, because he knows Mikey’s doing that stupid little smirk-smile, and Nate really doesn’t want to miss that. Also for some reason. “Yeah?”

The smirk-smile gets a little deeper, and a little more confident, and Nate’s knees aren’t holding up too well right now, really, thank you for asking. “Yeah. I wanna see the new Fast & Furious.”

“I have never wanted to see anything less,” Nate grins, too giddy, and before he knows it, he’s yanked Mikey into his arms, in a weird, too-tight hug. Mikey almost loses his footing on his skates, but he’s too good to stumble. Nate’s holding him too close to let him fall, anyway.

Mikey laughs in his ear, and the barest beginnings of stubble burn a little against Nate’s cheek. He kind of loves it. “You smell like hashbrowns.”

“It’s my natural scent,” Nate says, and he starts to feel like himself again. And then he catches a whiff of Juicy Fruit, and he feels like himself, but upside-down.

Mikey laughs again, a little louder, and Nate lets him go, because that feels more acceptable than clutching him to his chest in a near-empty parking lot. 

  
  


They don’t end up going to the movies after their shift ends, but straight to Mikey’s house. Movies are expensive, they rationalized on the way home. And you can’t pause movies in theaters because you want to make a PB&J. They then proceed to kick Luke out of the basement, with Mikey saying something about  _ seniority  _ and  _ respecting one’s elders, _ and Luke only puts up minimal complaints. Then it’s just Nate and Mike, sprawled across the sofa, scrolling through Netflix for something they haven’t already seen together.

“I’d be happy with anything, dude,” Nate says, and closes his eyes, because a key to a good friendship is trust. Or something.

“Fuck, okay,” Mikey says, flustered, and Nate laughs. They settle on a cheesy, 1970s mob movie, and somewhere between the second hail of gunfire and the third, Nate’s head is in Mikey’s lap. It’s a Bro Move. Or, it would be, if Nate wasn’t thinking about how close Clouder’s dick is to his mouth. Unfortunately, that’s all Nate can think about right now. And that really does suck, because this movie looks awesome. It’s probably not, but it’d be nice for him to figure that out for himself, instead of listening for the way Mikey reacts — how he laughs at the fake blood, how he sighs through the overwrought and under-developed love story between the protagonist and his girl.

“You like it?” Mikey says, as the movie’s coming to an end with, you guessed it, more bullets and blood and a mountain of cocaine.

Nate closes his eyes and tries not to think about Mikey saying the words  _ you like it?  _ in any situation but this one, because it will help absolutely no one if he’s thinking about Mikey, still above him, words a little slower, a little raspier, maybe broken by a breathy—

He’s going to have to sit down and have a long, hard talk with himself about this.

“A cinematic masterpiece,” Nate says, because deflection is his mother tongue.

Mikey rolls his eyes, and his head flops back against the couch cushion, and Nate looks away from the long, tan expanse of his neck. Well — he doesn’t look away immediately, but he still looks away. “I should know better, by now,” Mikey says, tipping his chin back down to look Nate in the eye. “Than to ask you to take something seriously.”

“I  _ am _ taking this seriously,” Nate’s pretending to be appalled, and he thinks it might be coming across as flabbergasted, which is the same vein but not the same vibe — “I take everything seriously. Seriously. Have you seen me when I’m Chef Bastian back in the kitchen? I’m  _ amazing.  _ I’m like — who’s that one chef, the one—”

“Guy Fieri?” Mikey squints. “I see it.”

“Bobby Flay, is who I meant,” Nate grins, and rolls away from him, only far enough that Nate’s cheek is still pressed to the denim on Mike’s thigh. “But I’m glad you think I look like America’s sweetheart. That’s kind of you, honey.”

“Not physically, man,” Mikey’s laughing still. “Just — you share an aura.”

Nate rolls back around, because Mikey  _ needs _ to see the look of disgust on Nate’s face. “What the fuck are you? What do you know about auras?”

Mikey shrugs. “I got a tarot card reading in Windsor, one time.”

Nate genuinely thinks his eyeballs will fall out of his head, with all this rolling. “Of course you did. Learn anything exciting?”

Mikey shrugs again, but only one shoulder, this time, and that means he’s nervous about something. It’s the same shit he does when his mom asks him why he’s come home four hours after curfew, and he doesn’t want to admit that he and Nate were shotgunning Miller Lite in Nate’s basement until Mikey threw up all over the carpet.

This feels different than that did, but still.

“Basically, I’m gonna live forever,” Mikey starts out, and Nate thinks he’s bullshitting, but as he goes on, he sounds — earnestly sincere. It kind of makes Nate want to cry. “Like, a hundred-and-two, she said. And I’m going to have a big family, and a small dog, and I’ve already met the love of my life.”

Nate wants to smirk, but he can’t, not when Mikey’s blushing like this. “And you believe her?” He asks, and he wishes he sounded a little more sure of himself.

Mikey shrugs. One shoulder.

Nate smiles, and his heart hurts. “You believe her,” he says, and he knows his heart is poundingpoundingpounding, and he’s got no reason, not one, to be acting like this. This — this  _ person, _ it’s somebody in their bullshit town, who probably doesn’t even deserve Mikey, who doesn’t know him right, who doesn’t know him like  _ Nate  _ knows him—

Okay. Chill, dude.

“I mean,” Mikey’s still blushing, and he’s so embarrassed, Nate can tell. “It’s stupid. But it’s kind of cool, you know? The idea that I already know who I’m going to end up with.”

Nate can’t help the grin, even if he feels like hiding his face in a pillow and emerging some many years later. “You’re a dork.”

Mikey looks up, shaking his head. “You don’t get it. You don’t — just — it’s hard to explain.”

Nate sits up, and steadies himself with a hand on Mikey’s thigh. Even  _ he’s _ not sure if that’s an accident. “No, I do,” he says, and he’s careful to make his voice gentle, so Mikey knows he’s not making fun. “But I just feel so bad for you. The love of your life is from  _ Sauga.” _

“We all have to make sacrifices for the ones we love,” Mikey grins, and his face is so close to Nate’s that Nate can smell the goddamn motherfucking Juicy Fruit, and he swears to God, next time he goes to a fuckin’ CVS and sees that shit at the checkout, he’s just gonna pop a fuckin’ boner.

That’s not a normal thought to have.

Nate doesn’t realize that, though, until much later. The two of them are playing Halo and Mikey pauses the game to unwrap a stick of the gum and stick it in his mouth, and Nate watches his jaw work out of the corner of his eye for the rest of the night.

  
  


The whole drive home, all he can think about is Mike. Mike’s body, warm and solid and  _ there _ under Nate’s head, and Mikey’s voice, God, his fucking voice—

And maybe this would feel like more of a crisis if it wasn’t Michael McLeod. Maybe Nate would be a little more confused if it wasn’t his best friend, if it wasn’t  _ this, _ someone Nate knows better than he knows himself, if it wasn’t someone who knew his laugh, who knew his hands, who knew his breath in a dark room.

Mikey is so big in Nate, in his heart and his head and everything else. So much of him is now Nate, and Nate — Nate can’t find any reason to be upset about that. How the fuck could he be upset about that? Mikey McLeod is everything good in the world, he’s made up of sunlight and chewing gum and laughter and blue eyes and cherry-red rollerskates, and God, God, God, this is what spiraling feels like.

He pulls over, sits for a minute, breathes.

Nate thinks about Mike the whole drive home, and doesn’t really ever stop.

  
  


One Sunday morning, in late July, Mikey starts singing along to the Elvis on the speaker as he refills coffee cups, and Nate considers sticking his head in the deep fryer. It’s like he  _ knows.  _

“All good?” Mitchell asks, like Nate didn’t just groan out loud as Mike skated past, singing about how he can’t help falling in love.

“Been better, my friend, I cannot lie to you,” Nate sighs, and leans his entire body against Mitchell. To Stephens’ credit, he doesn’t so much as wobble. 

Mitchell makes a sympathetic noise as he flips a pancake, which is some very impressive multitasking, by the way. “I’m sorry, man. What’s up?”

Nate steadies himself until he’s upright again, and thinks for a second. Mitchell Stephens is a textbook Nice Person. He has nice eyes and a nice boyfriend and always looks pretty clean. And he doesn’t look like the kind of guy who would fuck Nate over. So Nate takes a leap of faith, and—

“I think I’m in love with Mikey?” And he really wishes he sounded more confident about it, because he  _ is _ confident about that, because he actively wants to be the hometown boy that Mikey spends the rest of his life with. 

(Later, he realizes that this should not have been such a revelation, and that he is possibly very, very stupid.)

Mitchell frowns, and before Nate can freak out, he says, “And?”

Nate makes a noise that he was unaware the human body could make. “And what? I didn’t — what? I just figured that out, like, last night.”

Mitchell’s frown turns a little more incredulous. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Nate blinks. “What are  _ you  _ talking about?”

Mitchell blinks back. “What are we — why are you so surprised? He’s your boyfriend, right? I think you’re supposed to be in love with your boyfriend. I think that’s kind of the whole point, actually.”

Nate can barely hear his own voice over the rushing in his ears. “Mikey’s not my boyfriend.”

Mitchell snorts. “Good one.”

“No, man, I’m serious,” Nate says, strangled, and he feels like he’s having a stroke. Possibly. He’s never had one before, so how is he supposed to know what a stroke — nevermind. “He’s not — we’re not — together.”

Mitchell’s smile fades, until he’s just staring at Nate, and his pancakes are burning. “But you’re always together,” he’s saying, and runs a nervous hand through his hair. “And, and, you drive him home, and he pets your hair, and Taylor says he talks about you  _ all _ the time, and you make him milkshakes, and he asks you to go out, and he runs out into parking lots to  _ console  _ you—”

“He’s my best friend,” Nate says, helpless.

Mitchell deflates, slightly. “He’s your best friend,” he agrees, and looks at Nate a little sadly. “Well, okay. Shit, then.”

Nate winces. 

“Okay, well,” Mitchell sighs, shakes it off, and turns back to his pancakes. “Are you going to tell him?”

“I don’t know,” Nate says, dumbstruck. “Probably not.”

Mitchell frowns. “Then it probably won’t get any better.”

“It’s not bad now,” Nate says, and takes the pancakes off the burner, and flips them into the trashcan because those things look like pucks, now. “It just hurts when I see his face and now I can’t buy gum without getting a boner.”

“That doesn’t seem great,” Mitchell says, like Nate doesn’t know that already.

“Fuck, dude, I know that,” Nate says, pulling the collar of his t-shirt over his head, like if the world cannot see that Nate is rapidly falling for his best friend, then maybe it’s not happening. “I just — I love him so fucking much. And I’ve probably been in love with him since he sat behind me in bio, and he laughed his stupid little Mikey McLeod laugh, and—”

“Um,” someone says, and  _ that’s _ not Mitchell Stephens’ voice. “What the fuck?”

Nate, very slowly, peeks out from his t-shirt to see an incredulous, sweaty, and probably unclean Dylan Strome staring at him from through the order window.

“How much of that did you hear?” and Nate could probably faint right now, honestly.

“Fuckin’ enough,” Dylan says, and his voice is very, very high-pitched right now. “You love Mike?”

“Keep your fucking voice down,” Mitchell steps forward.

“I am,” Dylan is practically screaming.

“Emphatically, you are not,” Mitchell says.

Dylan looks like he wants to argue, and honestly, Nate’s daring him to, when he turns to Nate and says, “You mean it, though?”

Well — huh? “What are you—”

“Do you mean it?” Dylan says, and he’s got this determined little glint in his eye, and Nate is about to throw his spatula.

“Mean what?” Nate asks, reaching for the fuckin’ spatula.

“Do you love him?” Dylan asks, and steps forward until his chest is against the order window. “Because I’m not letting you mess with his head anymore.”

Nate throws his hands in the air, because this  _ fucking  _ kid. “Jesus Christ, Dylan, when have I ever—”

Dylan glares. “You actually want me to believe you don’t remember kissing him? Mikey might buy that shit, but I don’t.”

“Wait, what?” Mitchell says, turning to Nate.

Kiss Mikey, what the honest, actual, and ever-loving fuck — “I never kissed him, you idiot, I think I’d fucking remember kissing Mikey. I think I’d probably get the date of kissing Mikey tattooed on my forehead.”

“Aw,” Mitchell says.

Dylan’s still glaring, though. “Tip’s party. You puked and Stephen Gibson had to drive your sloppy ass home, maybe ten minutes after you and Mikey made out on the couch.”

Nate’s instinct is to reject that out of hand, because—

Oh, no. Oh no no no. Ohnononono.

Mikey’s cryptic phone call, Dylan’s death glare the next day, Mikey being weird,  _ Nate _ being weird—

“I kissed Mikey,” he says, and he knows he did. “Fuck. I kissed Mikey.”

Dylan blinks. “Wait. You actually didn’t remember?”

Nate throws the spatula. Strome, to his credit, ducks. “No, fucking Dylan,” Nate sighs. “I did not actually remember.”

“Oh, fuck,” Dylan says, clapping a hand to his forehead. “Dude. Dude, no.”

“I know,” Nate says, head flopping back.

“You have to tell him,” he says, and for once in Nate’s life, he accepts that this, this human disaster, is the one guy who knows Mikey almost as well as Nate does. “You have to. Dude — he’s liked you since he was fifteen.”

Oh, fuck. All those years, they could have been making out. All those wasted years of not realizing, not being able to — nope, Nate’s not gonna do that right now.

“Bullshit,” he says, because his instinct is to be unkind to this man. “Wait. Really?”

“Maybe it’s sixteen,” Dylan shrugs, as if that was the trivial part of his previous statement. “But. You have to. It’ll make his life.”

“That’s probably not true,” Nate says.

Dylan picks the spatula up from the linoleum tile, and throws it back at Nate. “Fuck you, man. The night you kissed him, he couldn’t shut up about you.”

“That’s also probably not—”

“Listen to me,” Dylan says, and the glare is back. “You tell him. I’m serious.”

“Oh, you’re serious?” Nate asks, sarcastic. 

“Nate,” Mitchell says, soft and sure. “Tell him.”

  
  


Nate and Mikey get off at ten. Dylan gets off at ten, Mitchell and Taylor at nine, and each of them sends a meaningful look to Dylan as they head out. Everyone except for Taylor, who looks at Mitchell like he’s being weird. Which is kind of cute, honestly.

But that means it’s just Mikey and Nate, dishing out dessert and those last few burgers before they hang up their aprons. It’s a little busier than usual, so Nate and Mikey weren’t talking much, not until now, as they’re walking out to Nate’s car.

“Missed you today,” Mikey says, bumping against Nate’s shoulder intentionally. “Feel like I barely saw you.”

_ But I saw you,  _ Nate doesn’t say, and honestly, thank God.

“But I saw you,” Nate then says, and wonders why he bothers at all. “You run that place, man. Those customers love you.” Quick with the recovery, that Nathan Bastian.

Mikey shrugs, pleased. “Meh. I can just twirl on my skates. I’m a pretty shitty waiter, otherwise.”

“That’s not true,” Nate says, and he knows he’s not playing their game right, but that’s kind of hard to do when Nate feels like he’s falling through the floor whenever Mikey smiles.

They get to Nate’s car, and Mikey’s opening the door, and he doesn’t want —

“Do you just want to sit here for a minute?” Nate asks, and his voice is shaking. “Haven’t seen you all day. I don’t — wanna go yet.”

Mikey blinks, and he looks like he’s torn between teasing and touched. “Sure,” he says, landing on touched.

And so they get in Nate’s car, and for some reason, Nate puts on his seatbelt, and he grips the steering wheel, and he opens his mouth, and—

Nothing.

Nate’s never been scared like this. Never with Mike.

There’s just — too much to lose. Four years of friendship, of the  _ best  _ friendship, and who gives a shit what Dylan says, that kid doesn’t know anything, and—

Fuck.

“I kissed you,” he says, and he doesn’t even realize he did until he sees Mikey’s face go slack.

“What?” Mikey’s voice is tenuous, and there’s something in the shake of it that makes Nate stronger, that makes Nate  _ talk. _

“I kissed you,” he says again. “And I didn’t know. I didn’t, until today, because Dylan told me.”

Mikey groans, and his head thumps against the seatback. “Are you fucking serious? I  _ told _ him not to tell you. I made him fucking  _ promise _ me—”

“What?” Nate frowns, turns his whole body to face Mikey’s. “Why would you make him—”

“Because you never acted like you wanted anything else,” Mikey shrugs, helpless. “And how do you tell someone you love them when they don’t love you, not like that? And how does that even fucking work when that someone is your best friend, and you could lose  _ everything _ —”

Nate grabs Mikey by the shirt and pulls him to his mouth. Because this feels like the right thing to do.

God, he’s glad he’s sober.

Mikey’s mouth takes maybe three, long seconds to catch up, but once he does—

Jesus Christ, once he does.

Mikey’s crawling into Nate’s lap, above the gear shift, seamless, and God, the way this boy moves. He takes Nate’s head in his hands like he  _ wants,  _ like this is what he  _ needs, _ like this is what he’s needed for so long, ever since that goddamn biology class.

Nate kisses down his neck because it’s easy, mouth over that tan expanse, feeling the stubble and the sweat and the way Mikey smells, like hometown and sunshine and everything Nate has ever wanted in this sweet, stupid life. Mikey is everything Nate has ever wanted.

“I love you,” he finally pulls back, and he’s breathing hard, and Mikey is too, over him with his legs bracketed across Nate’s hips. “I fucking do, I love you, I’m sorry, I’m so in love with you, I want you, I’m sorry, I love you so fucking much, Mikey, I’m—”

And this time, Mikey kisses him, laughing.

Some time later, after the windows aren’t so foggy, Mikey, still sitting in Nate’s lap, reaches over to his backpack in the passenger seat.

This, of course, requires Mikey to move slightly, and Nate’s not quite ready to let go of him yet.

“No,” he says dumbly, and Mikey’s still laughing.

“Not going anywhere,” he says, still rummaging through his bag. “Just — there we go.”

And if it’s not a fucking—

Mikey unwraps a stick of Juicy Fruit gum, and sticks it in his mouth. “Sorry. You taste like a hot dog.”

Nate would roll his eyes, but he doesn’t have the energy. Kissing Mikey is the world’s best sugar rush, and Nate’s still coming down. “That’s so mean. You know that’s what I had for dinner. You know that.”

“I never said I didn’t like it,” Mikey grins, and snaps his gum. “Hot dogs are like, my favorite food.”

“That’s not true,” Nate frowns, but he’s still kind of smiling.

Mikey shrugs. “No, it’s not,” he sighs, happy, and settles back into Nate’s lap. Without thinking, Nate’s hand goes to Mikey’s hair, the soft and short bit by his neck.

“That’s my move,” Mikey says, and he sounds tired.

“Didn’t know that was a move,” Nate laughs. “Thought that was just your nurturing and caring personality.”

“Only nurturing and caring for you, baby,” Mikey says, mostly sarcastic.

“You’re gross,” Nate says, and doesn’t mean it at all.

Mikey pulls his head up, just to look at Nate. He doesn’t say anything for a minute, just looks at him with careful wonder, like Nate’s something special, and kisses him again. Nate’s not special. That’s always been Mike.

  
  


“I can’t believe this is real,” Mikey says, hours later as Nate’s pulling on to Mikey’s street. He says it so quietly that Nate almost doesn’t hear him.

“Sap,” he says, and pulls into the driveway.

Mikey turns at him, grinning, tired, wonderful. “I’m serious. I never — I never thought this would happen. Even after Tip’s house. I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

“You are ridiculous,” Nate says, and he knows he looks like an idiot when he’s smiling this much, but he literally cannot care.

“Not as ridiculous as you,” Mikey grins back. “Seriously, who blacks out anymore?”

“So many people, Michael. I have some bad news for you about your upcoming university adventures.”

“So annoying,” Mikey rolls his eyes, and kisses Nate like he’s anything but.

  
  


It’s not until Nate’s pulling into his own driveway that he realizes he’s chewing Juicy Fruit, the same piece that Mikey’d stuck in his own mouth.

He takes a minute, presses his forehead against his steering wheel, and laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks everyone!!!! all of your support means so, so much to me, and i am so grateful for each and every one of you.
> 
> title is from "pink skies" by LANY.
> 
> my twitter is @jdrouins if y'all wanna hang out!


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